


Darcy Lewis: Evil Genius Extrordinaire

by OdysseyAvis



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Author loves to chat in the Comments, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Darcy Lewis - centric, Darcy Lewis is Tony Stark's Daughter, Darcy is the fandom bicycle and I love it, F/F, F/M, Hacker! Darcy Lewis, M/M, Nuns, Oh the dreaded nuns, author abuses parenthesis, darcy just really likes the evil genius title, engineer! Darcy Lewis, evil! Darcy Lewis, genius! Darcy Lewis, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9719546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdysseyAvis/pseuds/OdysseyAvis
Summary: Darcy knew she was an evil genius when her easy-bake oven blew up in Sister Phillippe’s face and Darcy began to cackle. She didn’t know nuns could look even funnier than they already did, but then she’d never seen a nun in a soot-stained habit with no eyebrows.





	1. Realizations and Firsts: A Darcy Lewis Origin Story

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, long time no see AO3. Insert usual disclaimer here. I had an itch to write and this idea was borne. Darcy Lewis is my ultimate muse. This first chapter is basically a preface and origin story but still really fucking interesting if I do say so myself. Warning for light mentions of physical discipline. Alright kids, enjoy the story.

Darcy realized she was _above average intelligence_ the first time she obliterated the clunky kindergarten math theorems that Sister Johnson placed in front of her and begged for more. Sister Johnson had given her another sheet with a sneer that quickly slipped into a frown as Darcy tore through those with unconstrained relish. The nun looked at her with suspicion and annoyance in her eyes and Darcy held onto her realization for dear life.

 

Darcy realized she was really goddamn _smart_ the first time she was able to tie sheets end to end and sneak out of a convent window without the nuns’ notice. She frolicked in the outlying fields like a wild beast, kicking dirt and grit up into the air without a care; if the nuns noticed more stains in her dress and stockings than usual, they would simply yell and punish and then chalk it up to this girl’s apparent oddness and penchant for wandering into trouble. From the moment she had been dropped off as a babe, in a tattered grey blanket with no last name, the nuns had known she was different.

 

Darcy knew she was a fucking _genius_ the first time she took apart the convent toaster and microwave and built her own easy-bake oven (the nuns had refused to get all of the girls there one for a collective Christmas present even as they whimpered and pleaded and cried) and formulated a plan to steal ingredients from the giant cupboard to concoct the perfect snicker doodle cookie.

 

Darcy knew she was an _evil_ genius when said easy-bake oven blew up in Sister Phillippe’s face after she confiscated it and Darcy began to _cackle_. She didn’t know nuns could look even funnier than they already did, but then she’d never seen a nun in a soot-stained habit with no eyebrows. The other girls laughed with her. She was thrown in the closet with no supper for her mutiny. The nuns didn’t need to know that’d she’d snuck five perfectly shaped and sugared snickerdoodles under her pajama top to tide her over for the evening.

 

The nuns (and, sometime later, the other girls) were exceptionally wary of her after that. Darcy mostly understood-the nuns were pompous and sticklers for the rules, whipping the back of Darcy’s knuckles when her intelligence became too appalling for them to handle. Little girls weren’t supposed to be able to wield their brains as weapons, weren’t supposed to be able to take one look at their punishments and throw it back in their faces, weren’t supposed to be wily and wretched and willful and so against everything they had ever stood for. They hated it.

 

Hated _her_.

 

It’s not like the hatred wasn’t mutual, and Darcy got away with as many obnoxiously sinful pranks on them as she could. And when she was caught, well, the caning was almost always worth it to see the head nuns fly into an uncontrolled rage, their usually sternly serene faces puffing up and morphing into ugly tomato-colored portraiture.

 

It was harder for Darcy to come to terms with the other girls’ intolerance. They had loved her when she had created the easy-bake oven, praised her even, and the brief friendship/hero-worship was a scorching bright point in the younger part of her life. They hadn’t even seemed to care about the first explosion and subsequent cackling. Darcy eventually figured that they must’ve eventually sensed something off about her-geniusness aside. They slowly grew apart from her. She would drift and wander and invent, growing impatient when they couldn’t keep up. It’s not as if she _meant_ to huff and grunt at their utter incompetence (it was honestly mostly in her head, but sometimes she just _slipped_ ), but she needed _more_ from them. It wasn’t her fault or theirs that they couldn’t give it. So, just as Darcy hit her teenage years, a deep chasm of separation hit. Darcy suddenly had a brain _and_ a body, and it wasn’t _allowed_ in the nuns’ or the other girls’ eyes.

 

Darcy realized she was completely and utterly _alone_ the first (and only) time she ran away from the convent. She hitched a ride out of bum-fuck nowhere Illinois and into the big city. No one stopped her. No one (she assumed) looked for her. At the ripe old age of fifteen, she became an independent party, a street rat, fending for herself. But she learned, oh how she _learned_ , and she did so quickly.

 

The first time she conned a man, it was for computer access (she’d tried an internet cafe, but she would’ve had to waste her then-meager funds on a shit cup of coffee to use one of their dinosaur-era desktops, and she might’ve been a street rat, but Darcy Lewis was a _classy_ fucking street rat, goddammit). She’d found him in a fucking Macy’s-because she couldn’t aim _too_ high just yet-steered him towards a forest green striped monstrosity of a tie, and began to whittle away at his creepy-yet-weirdly-fatherly disposition. He had just the right amount of money, just the right amount of paunch, and just the right amount of desperate-but-unaware-of-it old bachelor vibes going on. She would learn that these men were always the easy ones; justifying their urge to _possess_ her by telling themselves that they were simply offering to lend a hand. If she offered something back, then who were they to refuse?

 

“So,” He glanced at her (forged) nametag, not missing the opportunity to greedily eye-fuck her purposeful cleavage (she had prepared it so prettily, practically served it to him on a platter with a side of eggs and bacon, so why the fuck did she still feel so violated), “Samantha! What is a young girl like you doing working in a store like this?”

 

“Oh, just concocting plans to rule the world.” She dimpled and fussed with his tie once more. When he let out a pretentious and pandering laugh, Darcy knew she had him.

 

“Well I’m lucky that you’ve used your benevolent powers to help a poor old man like me. I didn’t realize how well the green would make my eyes...pop.” His grin was lecherous and scathing as it drew down her body once more. Darcy shivered. She swore to herself that if ( _when_ ) she did rule the world, this would be the first man she came for.

 

When she used his computer (after she’d knocked him out with a good dose of illegally acquired xanax) Darcy realized that she was well out of her fucking depth. There had only been _one goddamn computer_ back at the convent and that had only been used for ordering the girls’ shitty priest-approved curriculum books and the occasional droll e-mail. “Fucking nuns and their fucking anti-technology bitchass doctrines. That easy bake oven should’ve taken off Sister Philippe's _head_.” She scowled, punctuating her anger with harsh flicks against the white keys. While it was easy enough for her to learn the basics about the deep web, about hacking and the benefits and the beauty of it, she couldn’t get what she _wanted_ without a group, a _posse_ (she’d always wanted to be part of a posse) and to do that, she would have to build herself up.

 

She would have to make herself into a fucking _legend_.

 

She’d slipped a needle in between the man’s toes (Kevin, she acknowledged. The name Kevin had always given her the creeps), pushed air into his bloodstream, and tried to be emotionless as his heart gave out. He probably wouldn’t have been able to pick her out or recognize her from this night because of all of the xanax in his system, but he was an unnecessary liability and she’d discovered enough of him throughout the rest of the night to come to the conclusion that he was a bad, _bad_ man (she’d found illegal bank statements and child porn and other unspeakable things and this was justice in her mind). Her first murder stung, but she didn’t want to wait to get rid of this man. Ruling the world, even a portion of it, would take time after all.

 

After the first night, she’d refused to sleep on the streets again, so she learned to pick-pocket. She stole, small items at first, but then bigger and bigger when she found the stores where no one cared and there were enough blind-spots that nobody higher up would ever spot her anyway.

 

Darcy set herself up in a small motel on the south side of Chicago, the owner grimy and too high to notice her age (the premature tits and hips helped sometimes, along with the makeup she’d learned to apply, but there was still enough baby fat around her face for people to question) and got to work. It was paradise. She experimented. She _discovered_ . Things that exploded without leaving a chemical trace fetched a pretty penny on shady street corners, and she eventually earned herself a reputation with one of the local crime families. They doubted her at first, _everybody_ did, but several _booms_ , gorgeously demolished cars, bloodied Irish mobsters, and evil grins and cackles later, there was a strict no-kill and protection order placed on one small Darcy No-Last-Name (if they found that part suspicious they didn’t say a word about it). The loving dinner invitation from the Italian Matriarch herself didn’t hurt either. Sofia Moretti was short, curvy, and also had a penchant for secret saccharine smiles. Darcy figured that they were two _gnocchi_ in a pod.

 

Darcy didn’t know how good a lasagna could be until she tasted Mrs. Moretti’s. " _Bella_ , it’s _Nonna_ Moretti. I insist.” The old and heavily accented woman had reminded her with a pinch to her cheek. It was the first time she’d truly smiled since she’d escaped.

 

“Thanks Nonna.” Hey, who was Darcy to argue with the mother of the head of Chicago’s most notorious crime syndicate. She might’ve been on her way to becoming the number one alternative weapons creator in Chicago, but _nobody_ argued with Nonna Moretti.

 

Her work with the mob opened a whole new world. Darcy was ushered into a hotel that was “part of the family business”, got a newer, fresher, and (somewhat) safer line of chemicals and technology to tinker with (still illegally acquired, just in a different and higher-scale manner), and a fan-fucking-tastic new wardrobe (she might’ve screamed with joy when one of the many Italian wives introduced her to her new and improved walk-in closet. Darcy had let it slip that she appreciated shiny things, and someone had obviously remembered that tidbit).

 

Her sixteenth birthday passed without incident. Nobody mentioned it, but if Nonna gave her an extra helping of dessert that night and some new jewelry was slipped into her closet, she didn’t ask how they found out.

 

She was only questioned outright _once_ after she proved herself. Darcy was experimenting with some gun modifications (she didn’t enjoy these as much as her explosives and newly discovered affinity for poisons (traceable _and_ non), but Patriarch Moretti had sent an important goon to ask her _very_ nicely to improve their basic weaponry) and was interrupted by a condescending throat clearing.

 

She looked up sharply, cocking the gun in an offhand manner that disguised her skill with the weapon (Sofia has insisted that she get lessons, as most of the family had known how to aim a gun since they could handle the kickback). Her eyes glinted as she took in the newcomer, black hair classically slicked back and artfully clothed in tight slacks, suspenders, and a leather jacket. He was the epitome of the modern Italian mobster, just without the cheesy fedora (though don’t mention _that_ subject in front of a group of male Italian mobsters. Darcy only needed one time to learn her lesson). It would be hot if Darcy weren’t pissed. She’d been deep in her gun fondling (so cold steel turned her on, sue her) when this jackass had walked in.

 

Logically, she knew that he couldn’t have gotten past the basement access elevator doors without being a part of the Family, especially since she’d demanded her own personal goons to guard her lair (yes she calls it a fucking _lair_ and it was a badass one to boot) and subsequent entry points while she concocted whatever suited her latest whimsy. Personally, she wanted to at least shoot him in the foot to get that smug smile off of his face. This was _Darcy’s_ _Space_ (so maybe the convent had made her a little protective and greedy when it came to her things. Go figure). He was not welcome.

 

She stared. He stared right back.

 

Darcy broke the silence. “Didn’t Nonna ever teach you not to interrupt a working girl with more firepower than you?” He arched a brow and surveyed the mess of weapons strewn haphazardly around her. She brought the gun up and pointed it straight at his heart as he took a step closer. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Darcy. Creator of explosives, modifier of guns, hacker of epic fucking proportions, and, most importantly, Sofia Moretti’s favorite budding evil genius. Who the _fuck_ are you.”

 

He raised his hands, grinning archly all the while. “Well around here I’m known as Junior. Also as Sofia Moretti’s favorite  _son_. But Nonna likes to call me Lorenzo. She only uses the full name when I’m in trouble, but you’re welcome to anytime, sweetheart.” He leered.

 

“Ah, Darcy!” A large man walked into the room, skillfully puffing on a cigar, cloaked in a stiff pinstripe suit. Lorenzo Moretti, head of the Italian mob, was an imposing figure even if you were a loved one (there weren’t many of Moretti’s enemies left to tell about the picture he painted when you _weren’t_ a loved one). He paid no heed to the gun she still had aimed at his apparent son’s chest. Darcy had heard plenty about Lorenzo Moretti Jr., from Nonna, Lorenzo Sr., Sofia, and the other wives (and some of the other higher ranking men in the family, though she didn’t want or need much interaction with them unless it was to teach them about a new toy. The mob was just a stepping stone, after all, and she had no desire to ever rule through some sham marriage). He’d been abroad for the last year, garnering international contacts, and had left just before she’d been tentatively welcomed into the fold. “I see you have met my son! A woman has welcomed him with a gun to his chest more than once, so I am sure he deserves it, no?” He reached to kiss her cheeks and she had no choice but to kiss him back, lowering the gun back to her table.

 

“I’m sure all men deserve to have a gun pointed at them some point in their life, _Capo_ , it is just unfortunate that your son has not learned his lesson after the first few times.” He erupted in raucous laughter, ruffling her already messy curls (she didn’t mind. Nobody had ever treated her like something precious and _necessary_ until she had stumbled upon this violent family and they had showered her with affection).

 

“It seems that you could’ve handled him all on your own, though I felt the need to check on your progress as well. How are the modifications?”

 

“Better than any other you could find-”

 

“Well that’s a confident statement.” Lorenzo Jr. cut her off arrogantly. Darcy narrowed her eyes. _Nobody_ questioned her mods. Not even the next in line to the Moretti throne. She could’ve excused his behavior-he’d been gone while she was building up her reputation, the first time she’d assisted the men on a takeout and proven herself by creating a path of blood and wanton destruction, but she just wasn’t in a forgiving mood. She was sure that he’d been assured of her loyalty and worthiness before he’d been pointed in her direction.

 

Darcy snatched the gun back up and in the blink of an eye, fired at one of the various test dummies she had set up in the corner of her lair. The bullet split in two as it left the chamber, one half penetrating the dummy’s chest while the other sprayed liquid that sizzled softly as it met the synthetic silicone skin.

 

“I modded the bullets, mainly, but they only work like that if they’re paired with the right gun. In this case, all of the guns that you see here.” She swept her arms around her dramatically (she was a self-labeled evil genius, of fucking course she leaned towards the dramatic), gesturing to her small armory. “The half that isn’t like a regular bullet is filled with my own personal variation on sulfuric acid. It’s simple, but effective, incapacitating the enemy if the metal half didn’t wound enough to kill. If left untreated, it eats away at the flesh, leaving enough time for some painful interrogation.”

 

Moretti laughed again, obviously satisfied. “ _Perfecto!_ ” He kissed her chastely on the mouth, picked up a gun and a magazine of bullets, kissing her exuberantly on the cheeks in an excited farewell. “Don’t make an enemy outta the gal that helps kill ours, _figlio_.” Moretti clapped his son hard on the back before exiting, shooting Darcy an approving smile.

 

“‘ _Don’t fuck with Darcy_ ’ is the lesson you should’ve gotten outta that demo, _Junior_.” She said scathingly, turning back to her work and not caring enough to check that he left. If her righteous anger stuttered a little when she came back to her rooms to find them filled with fragrant violet hyacinths, well, nobody needed to know.

 

Much of the next year passed on the same way. She tinkered and improved mob weapons, singlehandedly giving the Italian family the best years the crime world had seen in a long while. There were moments for her where deep guilt and anxiety struck her (so many people had _died_ with her weapons and sometimes it overwhelmed her how much death could be attributed to her great mind), but she shook them off and locked the emotions deeply inside of her. This was her life now. This was how she _survived_ now. She’d carefully crafted an identity and gained a family and if she was going to stay sane she was going to have to stick with it.

 

She may have shared a few (hundred) kisses with Lorenzo Moretti Junior (yeah, there was some _heavy_ attraction there when he wasn’t being a complete _asshole_ ) that got both of them the side eye from Sofia and knowing chuckles from Lorenzo Senior, but it never went any further than heavy petting. Junior was, one, lined up for the throne and Darcy did _not_ want or need that and, two, she’d never told him her age, but her out of character shyness the first time they made out and still slightly-growing body suggested enough.

 

So, yeah, everything was perfect. Darcy gained a routine. She fell in love with her protective Italian family even more. She was paraded around at gatherings in gorgeous clothes and shiny jewelry and people never grew wary of her genius. She was _valued_ again. She got comfortable and complacent. They all did.

 

It was a week after her seventeenth birthday that everything went to shit.

 

Darcy sat bolt upright in her bed at the sound of gunshots echoing through the hallway. If she had to hazard a guess, they were still a floor or two below her room, but she didn’t want to risk it. She swept her hair into a bun and scrambled to grab the bug-out bag she’d stashed in the closet, ripping and scrabbling at the floorboards to snatch at the extra guns and cash. She’d just turned the safety off of her modded glock when the door to her room burst open with a startling bang. She spun out of the closet, ducked low, prepared to fire.

 

“ _Don’t fucking shoot me_!” A familiar voice shouted. Her panicked haze broke long enough to recognize Junior. He pulled her into his arms, hungrily crashing his lips to hers; the kiss was open mouthed and panting, a desperate goodbye. “There was a fucking _traitor_." He growled. "The Russians got your weapons. They brought an _army_.” This was the first time she had ever heard his voice shake with absolute fear. He pulled a collapsible ladder from a false board (damn, fucking mob always had some secrets) in the wall and shoved it into her arms. “Out the window. I know you can figure it out once you reach the streets. Don’t reach out to us. If there’s anybody left, we’ll find you.” With one last longing look, he pulled a gun from his waistband and rushed back into the hallway.

 

Darcy was frozen for a few moments.

 

_The Russians got your weapons._

 

_If there’s anybody left, we’ll find you._

 

How could she abandon this family that she had so carefully built, this family that was now under attack from weapons that she had made? The thought broke her and she paused just a second longer, just enough to let out a heartbreaking scream. Then, because she was a coward, because she wanted to live, because she still wanted to rule _her_ world, she hung the ladder over the edge of the windowsill and she ran _away_.

 

The Russians eventually reached her room, but Darcy was long gone.

 

Darcy laid low for a few days (at her old motel. How did this ever feel like a _paradise_ ), frantically devouring any tidbits of news that she could get. She reached out to her non-mob contacts, pulling every favor she could to get her a new set up and new systems so she could maybe hack her way to a new life (she couldn’t fucking believe that she didn’t put a backup plan in place. She got too close, loved too hard, and didn’t think ahead. Never again).

 

The story of the Russian takeover finally broke in the crime community. It had been quieter than Darcy expected. While the shootout at her hotel had been loud and obvious, they had been clever about the rest. She sobbed and screamed into her pillow when she learned that Lorenzo Moretti Senior had been shot, once to the head, twice to the heart, and dropped in front of Chicago PD. The Russians demanded a full surrender of bodies and assets from the rest of the family and, without a leader, they had given in.

 

There was no future (no love no romance no family no _hope_ ) for her left in Chicago.

 

That’s when she learned that there was a bounty on her head. Well, _bounties_. The Russians wanted her alive with no harm, the Irish wanted her alive but with some harm, and the Ukrainians just wanted her harmed, preferably dead (when she found out who that cunt bitch of a traitor was she was gonna blow their world until nothing was left but rubble).

 

She let herself succumb to panic for ten minutes. Red overtook her vision and she shook apart in her grimy motel bed, noises reminiscent of a wounded animal emerging from her body no matter how hard she bit down on her lips. She got her shit back together when she tasted the tang of blood on her tongue. She slowly uncurled her fists, sharp pinpricks of pain shooting through her palms, deep half-moon divots slowly leaking fluid. She dragged the back of her hands over her cheeks, ridding herself of tears. She took a deep breath. Another.

 

It was time to find her backup plan.

 

She would take the glock and the remaining bullets in her bag and three wads of cash. Three shirts, two pairs of jeans and a cardigan (because nobody paid attention to some lame plain jane girl wearing a cardigan). _Two_ cardigans, just because they were so goddamn comfortable. She decided against the jacket. She would be able to buy one later in the year. It was too hot for one now, and she just needed essentials in the small backpack she allowed herself.

 

Darcy boarded a greyhound and headed East. The sprawling cities of the coast would swallow her, and she would fade into oblivion until ( _if_ ) someone in the family was able to find her. She wouldn’t have to start from scratch. She had contacts in the deep web that could help her find business and everybody always needed something or other fixed (she would have to stay away from the explosives. Things that went _boom_ always attracted attention and her bombs were a brand now).

 

On her way, she created her new identity: regular high school graduate, only child of two parents from Wisconsin (she even found a way to slip in that they were giant cheese-heads), with a completely _normal_ life (though she gave herself two speeding tickets and the title of senior class president. She couldn’t help it). She hacked deeper than she’d ever had to.

 

She gave herself a last name.

 

Well, she _tried_ to give herself a last name. Someone else beat her to it.

 

 _Lewis or Grant_ , Darcy thought. Over and over. And _over_. _Lewis. Or. Grant._ She was about to rip her hair out over the decision. She wanted to start screaming again.

 

“I guess I would prefer Lewis. Grant was a shit president, if that were part of your criteria.” A head popped over the seat in front of her. All she got were green eyes, light brown curly hair, and glasses, but it was enough of a person for Darcy to glare at. “Damn, alright, sorry for chiming in. You seemed really fucking distressed and you’ve been muttering that question for the past ten minutes.” Darcy wanted to smack herself. And the mystery man. Her thoughts were drifting away again. “Now you’re just glaring generally, so I’m pretty sure you’re no longer mad at me. Aaaand the glare is back on me. You’re gonna give a guy a complex, ya know.”

 

Darcy glared for another minute. He took it, waiting for her to say something. He had a twinkle about him. In his eyes. Maybe it was the glasses. Fuck it. It was a _cute_ twinkle, if Darcy were being honest with herself.  “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.” Was all she could exhaustedly offer. Her voice was soft and she didn’t even want to talk because life was making her sore (it was a bone deep ache, something not even the nuns had beaten into her before. She was realizing that this was what true loss felt like).

 

Apparently, her simple sentence was an invitation.

 

“Well, it seemed really important, so I thought I’d try to help!” He was cheery. Too _fucking_ cheery. Which is why she wanted to jump out of the bus window as he stood and shuffled into the empty seat next to her. He nudged her backpack (which she had purposefully placed in the seat next to her as a general warning to fuck off and not sit near her) out of the way, into her lap, and sat, smiling like they’d been fucking best friends forever. “Sorry if I’m intruding. I’ve just been so bored on this bus ride from hell. I’m heading to Culver. University, I mean. Culver University! Basically the East Coast’s top place if you’ve ever wanted to science the fuck out of life.” Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, cool right! It’s my first year. I already shipped all of my shit there. My parents were nervous to let me go, since they live all the way in California which, by the way, almost never gets snow. I think I’m more excited for the snow than the science, if that’s possible. Maybe this bus ride is making me crazy. Anyway, I’m Connor!” He stuck out a lanky hand for Darcy to shake. It was dry and warm.

 

Darcy made a decision.

 

“That’s interesting.” She droned. “I’m heading to Culver as well. What a coincidence.” Her smile was tired but sly. Maybe she could make a change at this so-called epicenter of science. It would take hacking and some heavy-handed finagling, but it sounded like her kind of place.

  
  
  



	2. An Explosion is an Explosion is an Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a minute, finals are nearing and they're currently kicking my ass. Familiar characters are introduced in this chapter. They were fun to play with. Insert usual disclaimer here and enjoy the show!

“You know, Janie,” Darcy started, staring tiredly at the verging-on-tears scientist huddled next to the giant black scorch mark in the middle of the lab (slash kitchen slash living room slash _everything_ ), “I think three explosions in two days is a new record. Let’s get some sleep and then we can try to top it tomorrow, okay?” She gently hauled Jane up by the the straps of her grimy overalls and herded her outside.

 

“But it’s supposed to be a clear night tonight, Darcy! I have to-”

 

“Boss Lady, it is five AM. The sun is about to _rise_. _Tonight_ is about _thirteen hours away_.” Darcy was not above spiking Jane’s pop tarts (again) if only so she could get a hot shower, a good meal, and a break from her scientist wrangling.

 

“Oh.”

 

Darcy just closed her eyes tightly, reminding herself that Doctor Jane Foster (AKA Darcy’s favorite astrophysicist, pop tart addict, and all around benevolent influence) was the closest thing she’d ever had to a sister (it still hurt to remember the wives and Sofia in Chicago, but Darcy could recognize that she had never loved ( _desperately needed_ ) any of them the way she did her Janie) and the only person she could currently call _family_ (for some reason the two young women had formed a forever bond over tequila and deep dark secret spilling); therefore, Darcy was not willing to yell, maim, or otherwise terrorize Jane into doing what Darcy needed her to do (she was still not above the spiking-the-poptarts thing, though).

 

Darcy had developed a careful set of procedures for dealing with Jane’s constant need for care. If she needed Jane to be more organized, she would slip shiny new neon pens and post-it notes onto her monstrosity of a desk. If she needed Jane to sleep, she would carefully lay out a trail of decaf coffee and pop tarts towards the couch (she had moved it into the lab once she realized that getting to the outside trailer with actual _beds_ was sometimes just too damn far) until Jane finally got horizontal and passed out. If she needed to fix some of Jane’s equations or a machine without Jane noticing (because the ditzy intern persona she had carefully cultivated for herself was working rather well and she wasn’t ready to fucking blow her cover quite yet, no matter how much tequila was involved), she would wait until the scientist was basically making love to her telescope and then got to work.

 

Sometimes, though, Jane went outside of Darcy’s set procedural parameters and disaster struck. Hence the three (mostly contained) explosions in the past two days.

 

Luckily, tonight (or this morning; time of day was irrelevant to Darcy at this point) was a night where pop tart spiking wasn’t necessary. Darcy was able to lead Jane to the trailer with minor grumbling and huffing and coax her quickly to sleep.

 

After monitoring Jane’s breathing and eye movement long enough to convince herself that she would sleep for at least the next couple of hours, Darcy collapsed onto the rickety coffee table. She buried her hands into her curls and _tugged_ , wanting to scream her motherfucking lungs out. As much as she loved Jane and helping Jane and watching Jane trip and stumble gorgeously into new discoveries, Darcy was _exhausted_. If she was being completely honest with herself (which wasn’t something she liked to try that often) she’d _been_ exhausted since Chicago. There was a certain weariness ( _helplessness_ ) in her that had developed and never really left.

 

Culver had helped. _Was_ helping, since this internship technically counted for college credits, though she didn’t know which administrative whackjob let _that_ happen. After she met Connor on that bus (bless his adorable lost puppy soul) she’d followed him to Virginia, hacking into Culver’s system ( _honestly_ , nobody had good firewalls these days) and finished up her backup plan. Since Darcy didn’t want to _deal_ with the death and destruction and utterly crushing depression that came with her weapons falling into the Russian Mafia’s hands and subsequential overthrowing of the Italian legacy, her backup plan was aptly dubbed _Operation Avoid._

 

And that’s all she’d done.

 

Avoid.

 

For the first few weeks she’d kept her ear to the chatter, but everything just kept looking more and more dismal. _Capo_ Moretti was dead, Sofia in prison for aiding and abetting, Lorenzo in the fucking wind, Nonna in a _home_ (and how appallingly impressive was that, for the Russians to stick her in the one place they knew would drive Nonna batshit fucking crazy), and none of the other goons felt inclined to reach out to her. No amount of favors or illegal activity could get Darcy the name of the traitor to the clan.

 

She let herself mourn for a day. A full twenty four hours. And then she locked everything away in a heart shaped box and _moved on_.

 

Darcy had originally enlisted herself as a biomedical engineering major (it was something good, something constructive, she could make things that could _save people_ ) until she realized that that was pretty goddamn obvious to anyone still looking for her (last she’d checked there were still bountie( _s)_ on her head). She’d have to go with something no one expected. Something unimportant. Something that she would most likely be spectacularly bored with.

 

She immediately changed her major to Political Science.

 

The first quarter ended with her halfway contemplating suicide.  

 

The second ended with a (mostly) harmless series of simple explosions set off in Professor Bickler’s office (she’d deserved a fucking A from that cunt of a professor. Her paper on mob sociability, hierarchy, and ethics was _perfection,_ even if she couldn’t properly list her sources).

 

The rest ended up being a blur, though there were a few more explosions. Darcy couldn’t help herself. What therapy was to the masses, explosions were to Darcy.

 

So, all _useful_ science was avoided until she could absolutely avoid no more. Now, after a _great_ couple of years of stringent government system and ethics classes, schooling in niche international cultures, and a general crash course in ass-kissing and subtle manipulation (which she may have actually appreciated a little, as most of her previous manipulation had not had that practiced finesse), Darcy had ended up in godforsaken Puente Antiguo.

 

There was sand in her ass more often than not.

 

But it had brought her Jane. Her first true _friend_. Somebody who didn’t pay her for weapons, didn’t frown upon her more chaotic moral compass, or side-eye her every time she didn’t have the appropriate social reaction (though Jane didn’t have many appropriate social reactions herself). Darcy wanted to open herself up again. To let Jane _see_ her, where the evil and the devil and the pain and the fear were raging inside.

 

But she had promised herself that she wouldn’t ( _couldn’t_ ). _Never again_.

 

She twisted her fingers through a lock of Jane’s hair and fell asleep to her even breathing.

 

-

 

“ _Darcy Ophelia Lewis!_ Where the _fuck_ did you pull that baton from?! And why does _miniature lighting_ shoot out of it?!” Jane’s shriek was almost grating enough to rival that of Sister Cantwell’s from that one time Darcy had painted _666_ across the back of her habit (she still had good dreams about that one).

 

“That isn’t even my middle name!” Darcy shrieked back, slightly (monumentally) panicked, while she looked down at the hulking and unconscious blond that had been unfortunate enough to meet her wrath. “And it’s not a _baton,_ it’s a _modded fucking taser!_ ” And her modded taser (a beautiful piece of neon purple weaponry) was cranked all the way up, producing enough volts to kill a fucking _elephant_ (not that she’d ever tested it on one), so why was this asshole (that Jane had just hit with a fucking _van_ ) still able to _groan_.

 

Jane gaped for a moment. “We’ll talk about your ability to produce fully functioning _sci-fi-esque_ weapons _later_ .” ( _Oops_.) “God, I _knew_ it wasn’t me fixing my machines and then forgetting about it from sleep deprivation.” Darcy couldn’t contain her snort.

 

“To be fair, the fact that you willfully accepted that explanation shows how sleep deprived you actually _are_.” Darcy almost winced at the glare Jane threw her (and Jane’s glares were worse that _Nonna’s_ ) but held her ground, almost laughing at Erik fluttering awkwardly in the background.

 

She crossed her arms and glared right back. If looks could kill Darcy’s face would be sizzling.

 

“ _Fine_. Go get a first aid kit for this _lunatic_ while Erik and I collect data.” Jane’s eyes went wide and frantic and _sciency_ when she looked back to the complex alien crop circle that had caused a giant blond _british_ (she’d developed a bit of a negative bias towards the brits during her Chicago days) guy to appear out of the middle of a fucking _rainbow cloud._

 

“Jane, this man needs a hospital.”

 

“There’s no blood and he has a pulse, he’s _fine_.” Leave it to Jane to let a person die for the sake of science.

 

“Uh, shouldn’t we find out _where the shit_ this guy popped up from before we subject him-and possibly _ourselves_ -to any sort of investigation from private hospital and/or shady government institutions? Dude wasn’t exactly shy about raving about a magical hammer and calling me a _puny_ _mortal_.” She was met with no response from the two mumbling scientists. “I should’ve hacked the system for those six science credits when I had the chance.” Her taser sparked dangerously, agreeing with her. “Knew you’d always have my back, sparky.” She cooed, stroking her baton ( _taser_ ) lovingly.

 

Darcy knew they were all in deep shit when Jane caressed alien british dude’s long and flowing golden locks while they were hauling his ass into the back of the van.

 

She just couldn’t have guessed how _deep_ that shit _went_ , or how _massive_ the fan could’ve been when it hit.

 

Between all of the DMV hacking, coffee mug smashing, creepy and theify shady government agents (she was going to hold _that_ prediction over Jane’s head for the rest of their mortal (because apparently _immortals_ were a _thing_ ) lives), demented evil alien fuckery, explosions (from both her personally crafted devices and from crazy other world evil destroyer bots), and townsfolk and pet rescuing, Darcy didn’t have a lot of time to contemplate her own mortality. She honestly should’ve, seeing how there were about three and a half near death experiences in the past twenty four hours alone. She’d had a brief epiphany after the second one, shrugging when she realized that this was the most _alive_ she’d ever felt. Darcy had known that they were some mental issues (illnesses, afflictions, unique psychopathy, _etc_.) all up in her conscious mind for awhile now, but that was not exactly the time to sit and have a good chat about them.

 

She’d thought she’d looked death in the face, spat her bloodied saliva at its feet, and _won_.

 

It wasn’t until Thor was felled, until she saw Jane running _towards_ Loki’s Destroyer, that human mortality and death held her heart in an affectionate grip.

 

Darcy _wailed_.

 

_She couldn’t lose Janie too_.

 

Luckily she’d used Jane and Erik’s abandonment of her (yes, Darcy realized that they were mega distracted by _science!_ and the existence of _norse gods_ and that she was a grown ass woman but that shit still _stung_ ) to wire herself a few tricks. Some very _explosive_ tricks. Darcy had taken all of the precious leftover scraps of wire and machinery that the Secret Agent Man and his endless legion of goons had miraculously missed and wired them up to several electrical towers and exposed power lines. She’d acquired (stolen) a few wireless modems, hacked the nearest connection (whichever provider that was should’ve charged a fuckton more since their service survived _an alien war machine_ ), and connected all of that shit to her computer. Her inner evil genius (who had been tamped down and locked up and was ready to fucking _play_ ) had cackled gleefully.

 

All she had to do was press a corresponding button on her dinosaur-era macbook (the one treasured piece of technology she’d been able to hide from the douchecanoe jack-booted thugs (she still wasn’t over her fucking ipod)) and every electrical grid within a mile radius would overload and fucking _blow,_ sending sizzling shockwaves to any large hunk of metal and rendering it useless and smoldering.

 

She whipped it out, heart breaking as she tried to ignore Jane’s distressed cries and the devastated expressions of the warriors surrounding her, and flicked her fingers over the beat up white keys.

 

Darcy just hoped alien technology would be subject to her genius explosions.

 

She pressed the spacebar on her macbook just as Thor’s hammer returned to him.

 

Lighting and fire and dust arced around her. The Destroyer _shrieked_ as it went spread eagle in the air, metal sparking and collapsing and melting into itself. Darcy’s own scream echoed as her left eardrum blew, blood violently trickling down her neck. Her eyes snapped shut when the light and the noise and the pain grew to be too _much_. She fell to her knees, hands clapping against her ears.

 

The world _roared_ before everything went blissfully _silent_.

 

All that she could hear was a loud ringing and her heavy breathing.

 

“Lady Darcy.” The voice was faint and brimming with amazement. “What have you _done?_ ”

 

Darcy cracked her eyes open. There, gleaming regally in all of his intended glory, was a resurrected Thor, truly the prince he had claimed to be. His baby blues shone with admiration and respect. Jane gazed at him adoringly (looking a little singed but otherwise no worse for wear) before turning worriedly to Darcy, sight catching the now cracked and blackened macbook she’d let clatter to the ground. Jane locked eyes with her knowingly, pride and love and _understanding_ communicated between them.

 

It was almost too much for Darcy to handle. She averted her eyes, looking at her own hands, the left one drenched in blood.

 

“I just made some stuff go _boom_. No biggie.” She waved off Erik’s shaky hand as he tried to help her up. She’d just exploded the big alien baddie and saved them all from certain death, she could stand up perfectly fine on her own _goddammit_. Fandral took her hand with a soft reverence, pulled out a handkerchief and kissed her palm before gently wiping the crimson away (and _really,_ how fucking weirdly hot and chivalrous was _that_ ). He left the cloth tucked between her fingers; a perfect souvenir.

 

“While I am unfamiliar with the term _no biggie_ , I must assure you that the destruction of this monster is an accomplishment capable only of a true _Warrior_. I am honored to call you my Shield Sister. You must join our ranks!” Thor’s voice rose in timbre, holding a distinct giddiness that Darcy guessed came along with all great battles. He raised his arms, Mjolnir clenched proudly in his fist.

 

“ _Nobody can know_ .” Darcy’s voice cracked. “Thor, _you_ defeated it. _Please_.”

 

“But, Lady Darcy, I would never take credit for such a feat! Surely this should be celebrated! A feast-”

 

“ _Thor_ . I am _begging_ you.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. She couldn’t lose what meager life she’d built, couldn’t be exalted by these utter _heroes_ , couldn’t handle any sort of celebration for the path she’d taken. As far as Darcy was concerned, destroying The Destroyer was just something that could clear some red from her ledger.

 

Surprisingly, it was Sif who came to her rescue. “Some things must stay humbly hidden, brother. If our Shield Sister Darcy wishes for us to quietly honor her heroics, then to those wishes we are bound.”

 

“ _Aye_.” Volstagg proclaimed roughly. “We shall lock this memory into our hearts and away from our drunken tales of bravery. But in this moment, let us raise our weapons to you, Darcy.”

 

Jane trotted calmly to her side as the Asgardians raised their swords and hammer and axe and grabbed her in a rib crushing hug.

 

“Don’t think saving our asses gets you out of an explanation, minion. You could’ve been helping me with my calculations all along. Think of how much more sleep I could’ve gotten _then_.”

 

Darcy’s laugh punched out of her, thick and wet and _real_. “I might need a bottle of tequila for fortification, but yeah, I need to talk about some shit.” She sniffled as she hugged Jane right back.

 

A soft murmuring and a throat clearing is what broke their embrace.

 

“My Lady Jane, Shield Sister Darcy, Sir Erik. We must regretfully take our leave. My brother still reigns chaos upon Asgard. I fear for my kingdom’s fate.” Thor strode over and gently pulled Jane towards him. Darcy wanted to avert her eyes but also relay the beauty of the moment to Jane later. So she watched them. For posterity and shit. “Jane Foster, do not doubt that I will return to your side. For the first time in a millenia, I have found a reason to return to your Midgardian Planet.” She had to turn away from the kiss, just because it was desperate and sad and reminded her too much of one her own goodbyes.

 

The humans were silent as the Asgardians calmly gathered in a loose circle, a hard set to their shoulders as they were beamed up and away, leaving the scientists with a broken town and a shattered security of the previous belief that they had been the only life in their tiny universe.

 

-

 

“I swear to Thor-because I know he is real as all shit and can reign princely pain down on _all_ of you fuckers-that if someone doesn’t return my ipod within the hour I will go full-on _cujo_ on your bitch asses,” was the first thing out of Darcy’s mouth as a trio of men emerged from an unmarked black sedan.

 

It was the day after Puente Antiguo’s fiery alien caused destruction. The women and Erik had been able to return to their bare lab building. Erik had immediately retreated to the trailer to sleep, the metal door slamming behind him. Darcy just wanted to pass the fuck out, but Jane had teary the-alien-love-of-my-life-is-risking-his-life-on-another-planet eyes and couldn’t even be distracted by _science!_ because the jack booted thugs had stolen everything except the shitty pumpkin-spice poptarts.

 

So (because Darcy was the best minion an astrophysicist could garner) she dug up the emergency stash of tequila and salt and got right to getting Jane obnoxiously drunk (sure, it made for snot-nosed crying and two ruined beanies, but she also managed to make Jane laugh so hard she snorted, so Darcy counted it as a win). Some carefully edited details of Darcy’s life were shared that night, but Jane at least knew that she’d never had parents and she possibly had a higher IQ than Jane. “You’ve been watching me _struggle_ with some of these equations for _months_ . You lied to me about my machines, Darcy, _the sacred machines_. You, minion, are the _worst._ ” Darcy had pulled a packet of strawberry poptarts seemingly out of thin air. “You are now forgiven.”

 

“Ms. Lewis, Ms. Foster-”

 

“Ah bup bup! It’s Doctor Foster to you, Secret Agent Man. Just because you stole our _science!_ doesn’t mean you get to steal Jane’s rightfully earned titles.” Jane laid a hand on her shoulder as she emerged from the building, sunglasses on to block the bright New Mexico sun and hide her red-rimmed eyes. “Fucking _men_.” She muttered and crossed her arms over her chest (she knew her tits were distracting and smirked when all of the Agents (including constipated looking _Coulson_ ) winced or averted their eyes).

 

Darcy wanted to scream when another sedan rolled up and four more goons stepped out.

 

“We’d just like to ask you some questions. Our intelligence indicates that you were both in the epicenter of the events-”

 

“You mean the alien destroyer bot’s _reign of terror_.”

 

“-Yesterday and we find it necessary to collect your individual accounts. Is an Erik Selvig present?” Darcy and Jane were stoic. She thought she saw Coulson’s brow twitch.

 

Another man (was that a fucking quiver of arrows strapped to his back? And Darcy had thought she’d seen it all at this point) stepped forward. “Your cooperation would be fully appreciated. With it you may see the returning of your equipment.”

 

Jane and Darcy shared a look. “And a year’s supply of coffee and poptarts. No weird loophole flavors.” Jane bargained. Darcy elbowed her in the ribs. Jane glared, but added, “And Darcy’s iPod.”

 

Coulson sighed (it was the most impressive sigh Darcy had ever heard). “A six months supply and we will also return two file cabinets worth of non-redacted research. Ms. Lewis may have her iPod back.”

 

“Done. Erik is in the trailer.” Coulson nodded and motioned two of the goons in that direction.

 

“We will be questioning all of you separately for the cleanest results. Ms. Lewis, if you would.” Coulson gestured to one of the side buildings. She wanted to protest (and by protest Darcy meant tase all of their asses and pop the tires on their fugly government issue sedans) but Jane was cooperating and she didn’t need to look like a child (though that didn’t stop her from letting the door swing back into Coulson’s face after she shoved it open and quickly settled into a chair).

 

“So, thiefy mcthieferson, what would you like to know about the giant metal terrorist that shot beams of fire from where his face should be? He sure was one _hot_ piece of ass. Or was it something about Hammertime? Let me tell you, I did not expect that ancient norse gods would have british accents. No wonder the royals act so posh.”

 

“Actually, Ms. Lewis, we had a few questions of a more...personal nature.” Darcy didn’t let the easy smile slide from her face, but her stomach clenched. “I wanted to ask you about your parents. Do they know how you’re faring here?”

 

“Ah, Agent, I haven’t told anyone about our little adventures, if that’s what you’re worried about. I _did_ read the fine print on those papers you had me sign. I’m sure there’s more to follow after our chat.” They didn’t need to know about some of her deep web surfing that she’d done on her macbook (approximately four of her contacts were digging up everything they could on one Phil Coulson and she’d had the word SHIELD (the all caps had seemed very important) mentioned to her twice before her computer had been shattered and lost).

 

“We’ve been monitoring all of your communication. We know you’ve been following the set parameters.” He tilted his head but held his expression. “One thing, or people, we can’t seem to find are your parents. Would you mind describing them for us? Or maybe they moved and haven’t updated their address.”

 

Darcy gritted her teeth, her smile turning into a sneer. “They’re currently rotting skeletons in the ground. Died a fiery death during my freshman year at Culver. But you should know that, I’m sure it’s in the file you people gathered. I don’t remember their countenances very well. We weren’t big on family pictures. Pretty rude of you to try to get a sad and lonely _orphan_ to recall the faces of her dead parents, Agent iPod Thief.” Her voice turned dangerous, losing the lighter, younger, ditzy edge she had previously affected. She knew this Coulson wasn’t cruel (she’d met _cruel_ , in the deep dark tangled web of her mob days) but she did know that he saw something _off_ about her, about her _file_. It meant he was good ( _great_ , since her cover had gone pretty fucking deep) at his job.

 

“It seems that information slipped my mind.” ( _bullshit_ ) “I apologize if I caused you any pain.” His eyes glinted with knowledge and _amusement_ (if Agent iPod thief wanted to play, then Darcy would _play_ ).

 

“We weren’t close, anyway. Money kept them busy.”

 

“Yes, your bank statements indicate a vast inheritance.” Making numbers appear and fabricating bank accounts was one of the more boring but necessary parts of her new identity.

 

“I’m very fortunate. Student loans are a bitch. Or so I’ve heard.”

 

“You’ve even been able to make some large contributions to Culver University after their biology labs were damaged after a gas leak caused a series of explosions. How generous of you, being a Political Science major.” _Damn fuck it_ she thought she’d cleared that donation from her record (she’d gotten shitfaced on whiskey and guilt had crept up on her after her latest round of explosive therapy had taken down a whole three floors instead of just a contained room).

 

“Just because a gal’s into politics doesn’t mean she can’t recognize scientific genius when she sees it. Spread the wealth and all that jazz.”

 

He was silent as he stared her down. A slight movement from Agent Arrows caught her eye. He pressed a hand to his ear and stepped up to whisper something to Coulson.

 

“It seems that I must make an early departure. Ms. Lewis, Agent Barton and Agent Nichols will oversee the signing of your NDA’s. It was a pleasure.” Darcy wanted to cackle at the flatness of his voice. She’d figured that she’d won the game for now.

 

She turned to Agent Barton. “With those arms you can shoot me with an arrow anytime, Cupid.”

 

His mouth twitched. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

 

“Eh, gimme a break. It’s been a rough couple of days.” Darcy produced a shiny purple pen from her cleavage when Agent Nichols shoved the papers under her nose. Both Agents averted their eyes again. Yes, Darcy was definitely a step ahead in this deadly game they played.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I honestly don't know if I'll have any sort of set posting schedule for this fic. I'm not an organized person who writes chapters in advance, I just write and see where the characters and 'verse takes me. I'll post when I have stuff done! I'll never promise anything (except to finish the fic) because deadlines stress me out and then it'll take me longer to get this shit done. Just know that I do love writing and I really love this fic so far. 
> 
> Thanks so fucking much for taking the time to read this. Comments and kudos are much appreciated, I try to respond to any questions, extensive comments, or criticism in a timely fashion. See y'all next time.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gothicwiccann)
> 
> Find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/gothicwiccann)


	3. Panic Attacks and Private Jets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fully aware that I haven't posted in two months. Please don't ream me.

“Janie, I get that your guy is ripped as hell and has plenty of junk all up in that godly trunk, but I’m getting real fucking tired of the space alien defeating hat tricks we’re pulling out of our asses every time he shows up.” So Darcy was a little (possibly more than a little) bitter. Bitter about the aliens, bitter about her lack of non alien-related explosions, bitter that she was using her evil genius for good instead of her own crazy machinations, and bitter about whatever universe controlling alien force (probably those bitchy spinstresses that shared the one eye (wait, wasn’t that a greek myth)) had decided that she got to live one hellish mess of a life (not that it wasn’t fun, but she didn’t like all of the _running_ that came with it). And finally, _finally_ , she was bitter about Jane. She’d been waiting for it to sneak up on her, waiting for the soul-crushing disappointment in _herself_ for even feeling that way in the first place. Jane was wonderful. Jane was stardust and moonlight on a warm summer night, and she really, _really_ didn’t deserve a sardonic, chaotically aligned asshole for an intern.

“Darcy, did you forget about the life-sucking force that took over my body and almost killed me? Or the immortal space-titan that tried to destroy my body so he could get to it and harness it conquer the nine realms? Or the fact that my norse god boyfriend has abandoned me, _again_ , but I can’t be mad because his mother and psychotic evil brother died saving me and now he has to clean up the mess? Because if I were a lesser woman, I would totally be using that shit to guilt trip you right now.” Jane’s words were slightly slurred (thanks tequila) and muffled from where she was laying face down in the plush brown carpet of Darcy’s London home (she’d taken one look at the housing that SHIELD had given them and turned Jane right the fuck back around) that she’d acquired a couple of years ago only somewhat illegally (underground high-stake poker tournaments were the illegal part, but the deed papers for the property she won were totally legit). Darcy had sprawled on the couch after her second margarita and was playing with Jane’s hair with her outstretched arm.

“Boss-lady, I’m already guilt tripping myself. I’m fully self-aware right now, but that hasn’t magically given me a brain-to-mouth filter. I have all these _feelings_. I can already sense the nightmares and alien related PTSD coming on. Well, _more_ nightmares, I guess. Do you think SHIELD will pay for my biweekly therapy sessions? I get why they didn’t for Puente Antiguo, but they’re the ones who sent-Jane? Janie-love?”

A hysterical sob flew from Jane’s body and suddenly she was in a fetal position under the coffee table.

" _Fuck_ , I’m a terrible person.” Darcy muttered under her breath. She crawled slowly towards Jane, pulling the afghan off of the back of the couch and draping it across both of their bodies as she went.

Apparently Jane still heard her. “You’re _not_ terrible, Darcy.” She choked out between sobs. Jane’s hand snaked out from under the heavy fabric and latched onto Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re the _best_.” (and Darcy wanted to scream, to shout, that _no_ actually, she was the _worst_ , and Jane would never look at her again if she just _knew_ ) “I would be lost without you, okay?” Jane shook apart like a child in her arms. She stayed there with Jane long after her breathing deepened and gave way to sleep.

Darcy’s bones creaked once she slithered out from under the table, her breathing starting to get harder, shallower, faster. She crawled towards her bedroom, unprepared for even the sleeping body of her boss and best friend to bear witness to this. She thought that she’d felt everything that there ever was to feel, cried about everything there could be to cry about, but the world just kept fucking one-upping her. The first whine broke through her body as she kicked her door closed with her foot. Darcy’s chest felt concave as she curled into herself, fingers tangling into her hair, back hitting her bedframe with a soft _whump_ every time she rocked backward. White hot anger (for herself, for Jane and Thor, for Junior and Sofia and Nonna, for Erik and Coulson and Barton and the _rest_ , for anyone she’d ever collided with in this life) warred with a stunning wave of melancholy.

She guessed that she’d asked for this life, in a way, the first time she’d refused to cave to the nuns’ corrections. Her sins had built and spiraled into an unstoppable force. They’d warned her that her life would be full of pain, but to be a lifeless shell of obedience had been an unacceptable outcome (and it was still an unacceptable outcome but _fuck_ this was _exhausting_ ).

Darcy Lewis shook apart by herself, alone and lonely, curled beneath her soft white duvet as her body sunk slowly into her mattress.

-

Darcy grumbled when she heard three sharp raps on her door. She’d been expecting the SHIELD lackeys for days now, and their lack of looming and theify presence had seemed suspicious (and, while she didn’t want to admit it, alarming; if SHIELD didn’t send at least a half dozen jack-booted thugs to aggressively question them about the latest alien fiasco then there was some _serious shit_ going down). Apparently, it was time to face the music.

She took a deep breath, put on her best I-know-you’re-from-a-shady-government-agency-and-want-to-take-our-shit-so-kindly-fuck-off face, and yanked on the door.

Darcy was not expecting to see Tony Stark, dressed in tattered pants and a faded AC/DC tee and carrying a bright red suitcase, lounging against her doorframe.

“You know, I think they photoshop your goatee in those press photos. Do you pay them to do that? It’s way less full in person.” The first words out of Darcy’s mouth in the morning were usually her least tactful (although she’d had some winning lines while drunk off her ass (tequila made her handsy but bourbon just seemed to sharpen her already cutting wit)) so nobody (read: Jane) really should’ve been surprised that these were her first to one infamous Tony Stark (she was in ratty flannel pajama bottoms and not even through her first full cup of coffee, fucking sue her).

The man himself brushed carelessly into Darcy’s apartment ( _flat_ , Darcy’s weird political science inner voice insisted; it was always easier to get the locals to respect you if you used their lingo) and spun several times, surveying the space while speaking. “I don’t actually. They’re just that afraid of a lawsuit. Or maybe it’s those explosive repulsors I wield. You know, the ones that can blow regular puny humans to kingdom come? Care to see them sometime?” He ended up rifling through the cupboards and pouring himself a mug of coffee from her industrial sized brewer (apparently it was a massive fucking understatement that Stark didn’t play well with others).

She’d store away the facial hair sensitivity for later.

Darcy grinned her evil little grin (and it was assuredly evil, she’d practiced it in the mirror just last night). “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

At that Stark broke and barked out a (harsh, pained, guarded) laugh. “Alright, short stack. Looks like you came to play.”

“It’s Darcy, actually, and technically, since this is _my_ apartment you just barged into, I was already playing. You’re the one who just came.”

He grinned (also somewhat evilly, but Darcy wasn’t surprised; she was sure SHIELD had multiple contingency plans in case Tony Stark ever stumbled upon a hankering to rule the world). “You know, my plan was to come in here and whisk Foster away with promises of shiny new Stark tech and unlimited funding and drop any intern-shaped deadweight. I might just have to keep you around to further explore your talent in sexual innuendo. It’s something I greatly enjoy.”

Darcy sipped primly on her coffee (she found it important to note that her mug had _Blow me, I’m hot_ stamped across the front (Stark’s just had shitty clipart of a red hand flipping the bird)). “Sexual innuendo aside, Jane would never leave without me. She would die within the week.” Because the universe owed Darcy (or maybe just loved proving Tony Stark wrong) a door opened and a groaning astrophysicist stumbled into view, wrapped in a galaxy print duvet (it was Darcy’s flat so _Darcy_ got to make the decorative choices). After tripping and almost concussing herself on the coffee table, Jane immediately plopped herself down on one of the moon print stools (she had happily accepted Jane’s glare for that one) Darcy had ordered off of Amazon and made grabby hands for the Mjolnir mug and peanut butter pop tarts Darcy pushed towards her. She managed to plop a small pillow under Jane’s forehead just before it smacked into the countertop. “Exhibit A of how necessary I am to Jane’s process. The rest of the letters will come in time.”

“ _This_ ,” Stark suspiciously raised an eyebrow, “is Jane Foster. Renowned astrophysicist, Norse Shakespeare’s great lady love, theoretical creator of universe connecting bridges _Jane Foster_?” Darcy almost wanted to let him in on the fact that Jane was also a previous carrier of the world destroying force known as the Aether (sure, she didn’t have it _now_ , but she’d built Jane a taser of her own after Puente Antiguo so she was totally capable of kicking a small to medium amount of ass) but decided he didn't need to know that.

Darcy snorted. “You say that like I can’t tell that you haven’t showered in two days or slept for three, have a giant fucking grease stain behind your ear, and haven’t eaten anything besides, oh, a couple of green smoothies and a stale piece of toast that you found near one of your juiced up suits.” Stark held his coffee-free hand to his heart and looked wounded, though the glint in his eyes let her know that she hadn’t stepped too far (not that Darcy would really give a fuck, but it looked like this could be good for Janie and Darcy would do anything for her Janie).

“Look, Stark, if you’re serious about offering Jane a job you need to realize some stuff. Janie has been through some shit the past few weeks, hell, the past few _years._ She had _zero_ fucking funding to get her where she is. She was chalked up to be a scientific crackpot and almost relegated to a midnight premiere alien special on History Channel before Thor showed up and aliens rained hell down on the planet. Even Erik, who is basically the father that we’ve both never had, thought she was a little loony. Cut her some goddamn slack or I’ll taze you into another realm. And it’s _Doctor_ Foster to you, mister _genius playboy billionaire philanthropist._ ” She really hadn’t meant to go on a rant (okay maybe she had a little) but she was protective of the little family she’d built (and damn had realizing that fucking hurt (Darcy would never admit to anyone but herself that the urge to _run and fucking hide_ had overwhelmed her so thoroughly that she’d almost destroyed everything again)).

“To be fair, one of those smoothies was red. Also, how and why do you know so much about my personal habits. You didn’t hack Jarvis because I made Jarvis. I am a genius. He is unhackable. Wait. Are you one of those weird stalker fangirls that lusts after my shiny red weapons of mass destruction? Because I am in a committed relationship with no room for your sizable rack.”

Darcy simultaneously felt the urge to laugh at his antics and taze him in the balls (her evil genius voice suggested that she should do both at the same time). She couldn’t help, though, feeling an immediate connection with this mega-rich man child who saved the world in his spare time (it definitely had nothing to do with the fact that Tony was also a little evil (a good man, as his actions proved that, but he was a little more jazzed about science and explosions than any non-evil person could be)).

“I've wrangled two Einstein-level scientists for the past three years while battling space elves and fire-breathing giants on a semi-regular basis. You eventually learn how everyone tics. Also, _People_ had an article about your fucking magical green smoothies once. ‘ _What Fuels the Mind of a Genius?’_ I believe it was called.”

“Ha! So you are a stalker!”

“I was getting my vag waxed and I was bored. Fucking sue me Shellhead.”

He half laughed and choked on his coffee. Darcy almost cackled. “Info that I did not need to know.”

“But info that I did need to torture you with.”

He now appraised her with a slightly wary expression. “You and Pepper are never allowed in a room together.”

Darcy’s inner fangirl may have gone a little wide-eyed at that statement (because _Pepper Fuckin Potts_ ). “You haven’t even offered the good Doctor a job yet, Tinman, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“ _Doctor_ Foster will ditch the shady government contracts as soon as she realizes the large package that I have to offer. Stark employment comes with full benefits and no work redactions. She’ll be able to talk about all of her little rainbow tunnels without looking over her shoulder. She’ll be able to _publish_. The sons of bitches that called her crazy will be begging for scraps of her time. Plus, Hammertime himself will have no complaints about her proximity to his earthly place of residence.”

Darcy paused. Jane had always avoided talking about how the rest of the scientific community viewed her (at least while sober; Darcy remembered once vowing to avenge Jane’s tears as they spilled into her third margarita of the night (she also might’ve had to blow some shit up)). She knew, though, that Jane thirsted for recognition, for funding, for _praise_ . Darcy’s had a little more impact once Jane found out that, yes, Darcy was also a genius and actually understood the work she was doing, but she still desperately yearned for the world to be fucking _dazzled_ by her brain.

Since New York (AKA The Biggest Fucking Shitstorm The World Has Ever Known), the accusations of Jane being a few fries short of a full happy meal had stopped. They’d headed to London with their (dirty, icky, morally compromising) SHIELD funding and Jane had worked herself down to the bone to reconstruct the bridge. And while one of Jane’s larger reasons for sleepless nights and lost weight was trying to bring home one large hunk of norse-flavoured man meat (even though that bastard hadn’t even let Jane know that he was on-world and she’d had to find out from fucking CNN), Darcy couldn’t help but notice the way she longingly read other astrophysicists’ papers. If she (they, to be honest, since Darcy now went where Jane went) didn’t take the chance to escape from SHIELD’s dastardly clutches while they were too _busy_ (again, alarming) to care, Jane might just fade away from pure lack of people _seeing_ her.

Jane _deserved_ this.

“We’ll be packed and ready to go in a few days. Get your goons to send the good jet.”

-

“I cannot believe that you _sold_ our souls to _Stark_ while I was _asleep_ on my _pop tarts_.” Jane hissed for the billionth fucking time as they boarded the (private, giant, alcohol filled) chariot that would whisk them away to Stark’s tower shaped midlife crisis. “I didn’t even get to meet him!” That was another awfully contentious point for Jane to be mad about even as she insisted that Stark was the devil (and Tony Stark was totally _not_ the devil; he was a lesser demon).

“Do I need to remind you about all of the _pros_ for this move again? I still have my mini-whiteboard.” Jane continued to grumble while the flight attendant (surprisingly _not_ clad in a bikini) poured their drinks. “You know that I offered to fund you, but you refused to take my money. This is the only option, Jane. Unless you want all of that beautiful knowledge you’re procuring to be shoved into a deep dark hole in fucking Guantanamo Bay. Now drink your goddamn orange juice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a really short chapter for such a long wait! But chapter four just needs a few hundred more words a should be posted within the next week. I just wanted to say thanks for the support this is getting! I know it kinda jumps all around to my personal whimsy, but I swear there's gonna be some serious advancing plot soon (it may involve my favorite Chicago gangsters). I'm still kinda trying to set up the premise and really just give Darcy some good friendship and character development. I hope you guys saw that, and please sound off in the comments! I love reading them so much. They keep me motivated. Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gothicwiccann)
> 
> Find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/gothicwiccann)


End file.
